My car is at the garage so often for repairs, the mechanics invite me to their Christmas parties. This year I was also invited to the World Speedway Championship, which they go to every year. I’ve never been to speedway before, I protested, but that didn’t matter, they said. It was easy to follow and in any case the speedway was really just an excuse for a massive booze-up in Cardiff. Everything was booked, they said: hotel, trains, speedway tickets. All I had to do, they said, was get my arse to the station for 8.15 a.m. on Friday with beer for the journey. There were 16 of us going, they said, drinking lager, mostly.
I missed the train and for one reason and another I didn’t get to Cardiff until the evening, with the name of the hotel written on the back of my hand in Biro. The town centre was full of drunk lads and coveys of raucous babes with hardly anything on, and every doorway was guarded by at least two bouncers wearing ear pieces, and the genial Heddlu were much in evidence. Outside a pub a group of topless chaps were hoarsely and unkindly singing the one-line song, ‘When Thatcher dies, we’re having a party’.
The hotel, when I found it, was above a disco bar. The music beat issuing from this bar was the loudest and deepest and most reverberative in the town centre by far, and there was a long queue marshalled by four bouncers. Note to self, I thought: no point even trying to get any sleep until three of four, or whenever this place closes.
The hotel interior, however, was surprisingly quiet. I went up in a lift as far as the reception area and found myself in a different world: a world of carpets and flowers and politeness.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in